


The Year Before

by WarriorOmen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Banter, Canon-Compliant, Comfort, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Euphemisms, Five things style, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt and comfort, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Pre-Movie, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen
Summary: Joe and Nicky, in the year before the movie takes place. With all the fluff, romance, and moments in between. Five Moments Style
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 272





	1. Latte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bi_leigh_bi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bi_leigh_bi/gifts).



> All the fluff, bantering and romance a person could ask for. Each scenario is different, and not all chapters have smut. (I think two do).
> 
> I wanted to gift fluff, fun and adoration, and I think I did.
> 
> Self Beta'd.
> 
> If it's your thing, come find me on [Tumblr](https://coffeebeannate.tumblr.com/)

There’s cream on Joe’s nose, and some on his upper lip, decorating his beard.

Nicky is not willing to yet _tell_ Joe that there is cream on his nose. It’s far more entertaining to watch him disregard its existence, animatedly awash in the story he was telling Nicky about the display he’d caught sight of when they’d separated while shopping earlier.

Currently, the bags sit at their feet, against the table legs, utterly ignored by their owners as their light conversation keeps them occupied.

Nicky thinks for a moment about how much he enjoys the privacy of their conversations. Not that there are not people who can’t understand them-they can, but that at times, they won’t stick to a single language as they speak. The flow is easy to them, whether it’s Italian at once, Arabic at once, or both of those and things more ancient at once, it makes sense to _them._ But Nicky is charmed to think it being _only_ them.

Unless they happen to be some talented linguists at times. But when they talk amongst themselves, the switching is near unconscious.

“You’re zoning.” Joe says, interrupting Nicky’s thoughts of that very fact, though Nicky knows he’s not offended, “Something throw you off?”

 _Yes._ Nicky thinks. _But if I say so you’ll clean it up, and that’s for me._

Nicky’s still staring-Joe giving him a quizzical look across the short table, Nicky grins, slight, but endearing, and reaches a finger out, wiping at the dot of cream that’s been bothering him so.

“That,” Flicking his tongue to his own finger, amused when Joe’s eyes fixate on the movement, the world dimming slightly around the edges. “Such a mess.”

“Nicolò.” Joe’s tone a _very_ weak warning.

“Yusuf.” Tilting his head just so, the picture of perfect innocence.

Joe shakes his head, picking his mug up anew, “Troublesome.”

Nicky leans back in his own seat, putting some pressure on Joe’s ankle where it’s exposed by the top of the shoe with his own foot, “You were saying? Mannequins?”

“I forgot.” Joe admits, setting the mug back to the saucer.

“Tragic.” Nicky couldn’t sound less sorry if he tried. (And he wasn’t.)

Joe snorts, because he knows his husband, knows his moods, his intentions. Absolutely nothing about Nicky is a mystery to him anymore-nor he to Nicky. But that is part of what they love so much about each other.

Nicky had said as much several times over. Admitting to Joe after one extremely long set of years that never seemed to give any leeway, that he relished in how he could trust Joe. How no matter what state or situation, Joe almost never had to ask anything. That he knew, sometimes better than Nicky himself did, what was needed.

Of course, that was a two-way street, and Joe still recalls a blissfully patient month some years back where, exhausted, strung-out, and mercurial far beyond what was logical, Nicky had immediately taken him away. Had told Andy that it didn’t matter what came next. They needed a month. Starting that moment. There was no room for argument, and Andy didn’t even try to question it.

(Then, she didn’t have to, of course.)

All that said, it didn’t _stop_ either of them from driving each other crazy, especially now, when Nicky’s ocean sharp eyes are dancing across Joe’s face, the only real outward sign that he’s feeling as playful as he is. To strangers, he’d look quite unbothered, but Joe _knows._

Maybe it’s that knowing that makes it so fun, too.

“Now who’s zoning?” Nicky interrupts, the foot poking Joe’s ankle now making a nice, steady little climb up his leg. Joe lifts his gaze back, “We get lost in each other, dear.”

“Affirmative, are you done?”

“Yes, yes.” Joe moves to stand, Nicky’s leg winds it’s way around his calf, preventing movement with a laugh, watching Joe’s attempts to extricate himself with open delight.

“Trouble?”

“Yes, and his name is Nicolò.” Joe grunts, finally freeing himself and relishing in the delightful sound of Nicky wheezing slightly into his own chest, pushing his own chair the rest of the way out and moving faster than Joe’d been anticipating, appearing before him in seconds, hand sliding into the pocket of Joe’s own coat.

Joe pulls him in, almost on reflex, accepting the sweet, chaste peck to his lips, a hand briefly toying with the curls that hang above Joe’s eyes.

“Your trouble.” Nicky smiles, wide-eyed and fond.

Joe’s never loved anyone more in his life.

“My trouble.”


	2. Indulge

“More?”

_No._

_Yes._

_Perhaps._

_Ask me later._

_Ask me never._

_Ask when-_

“Yusuf”

_Huh?_

Nicky’s tutting-perhaps. He may be making some other noise, but Joe’s ability to think of anything evaporated an hour ago (or whenever ago, who even knows what time is).

“Yusuf.” And there’s a chuckle there, smugness, even, Joe finally opening his eyes again, only realizing somewhat belatedly that they were closed.

“Are you okay?”

It’s a tease, Nicky knows he isn’t. His eyes are glassy, blurry, and teary, his chest hasn’t stopped heaving for that same hour, his curls soaked with sweat and plastered to various parts of his head, blinking down deliriously at Nicky, who just laughs _again._

Nicky rolls his hips, forcing himself further (impossible-that should be impossible), Joe whining at him helplessly, begging, not really, for clarity.

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry, “Think I lost you there. Have to bring you back.”

 _Back where? Back from a land before cock? Because if that’s the case I don’t want to._ Joe thinks, ridiculously.

Such intelligent thoughts are better suited for other places. Smart thoughts. Thoughts that come when he hasn’t lost every shred of braincell he’s ever possessed.

Nicky’s been beneath him for what _feels_ like forever. Letting Joe ride him with steady, maddening slowness that he never let him get more aggressive with. Keeping him steady, firm. Until Joe had been reduced to little more than over-sensitized babbling and begging.

Nicky’s patience could be _devastating_ when he desired it, and in the right mood, put his skill to the limits.

“Poor love.” Nicky’s tone is so gentle, it almost breaks him, Joe rolls down, slow, needing more friction, something to soothe the throbbing heat within. Notably, Nicky isn’t doing much better by now, his chest soaked, eyes fluttering from where he’s been trying to keep himself steady.

“Come on, you, come on-.”

_Finally._

Joe’s limbs are heavy, sludge-like, Nicky helps, gripping him and steadying him, using monumental strength to lift Joe up, bring him back down. Get the previously lazy rhythm into something faster, harder. Joe’s sluggishness fades with the friction, slotting his hands loosely to Nicky’s biceps, holding steady, working with him to create the balance they both crave. Previous slowness gaining more and more momentum. Nicky’s entire body tightening, coiling, Joe squirming, trying to work himself down harder, bring Nicky deeper, get them to where they both want to be.

Nicky’s nails dig into his hip, sudden, hard, drawing half-moon marks into the flesh, and _pushes._ Joe keens when he feels everything flex, tighten, and spill, winding his hands into the soaked strands of Nicky’s hair, praising him in whatever language he can bring out of his dazed brain, slurred and hazy, rocking down onto him to greedily absorb every pulse that fills him.

Joe’s grunting, or whimpering, but Nicky soothes him, fingers smoothing out in apology where they’d dug into his hip, stroking Joe with lazy firmness, knowing he’s beyond the ability to move helpfully himself, dragging him down and bringing their mouths together in a weak kiss, encouraging him with low murmurs and gentle pressure until Joe shudders, gasping, coating Nicky’s fingers and their stomachs, shuddering, world fuzzing pleasantly.

Nicky’s petting him, when he finally opens his eyes again, looming over him. Joe registers that he’s dry, and flat on his stomach. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep, but Nicky looks more awake, cleaned up, he smells like weak soap.

“Hey.” His voice achingly sweet, Joe slurring at him, leaning more into the hand stroking his spine. “Hey.”

Nicky chuckles, sliding down beside him, throwing a leg over Joe’s and snuggling close. “Go back to sleep.”

“Hmm.” Is all Joe says, before he does.


	3. Nightmare

_Someone is screaming._

_Someone is screaming and shouting and crying and there’s blood in Nicky’s hair, blood in his eyes, blood filling his nose, his mouth._

_There’s a hand on a sword and a fist clutching a gun, there’s smoke in his peripheral and mud under his boots. There’s screeching and crying and Nicky’s deaf from explosions. There’s fire in his blood and pain in his heart._

_Joe. Where is Joe? Where did Joe go?_

_Who’s pushing him? Who’s screaming now? Why can’t he talk? Why can’t he see? Why can’t he hear?_

_There’s pulling on his wrist, there’s agony in his lungs. The ground seems ready to swallow him whole, mouth open, jaw aching. Come down come down, come down Nicolò._

_We’ve been waiting for you, son._

_Screaming screaming, there’s fireballs across the sky, which is purple, orange and blood-red._

_Nicolò. Nicolò._

_No-_

“Nicolò!”

Nicky blinks, once. His name brings him back, his name not uttered in the distance, not by some hazed out being or gaping maw of the earth. Nicky gasps, once, twice, Joe’s hand flat to his chest, one gripping his wrist.

“Nicky?”

“Y..Yusuf.” Nicky takes in oxygen, long, slow, steady. “I-“

“Shh, shh.” Joe doesn’t have to ask, of course he never has to ask-soothing his hand across his chest, comforting him. Nicky blinks, again, his eyes glassy, heart hammering in his chest, “Yusuf..please.”

“Shh.” Joe shifts them, getting into a position where he can brace himself against the headboard, legs open, pulling Nicky into the space there, cradled into his lap and chest. Nicky’s crying, slow, panicked tears that fall into his chest.

“Shh, my heart, shh.” Joe rubbing at his back, rocking them slow, steadily. “My love. I have you.”

“Always.” Nicky isn’t apologizing-Joe would never let him. Nor would he want to. Nightmares are common for them, and unpredictable. Joe’s comfort a warm blanket from the terror in Nicky’s head. The screaming in his ears.

“Is there blood?” Nicky asks, weakly. “The ground-“  
  
“No blood, my heart. The ground is solid.” Joe assures hm, “Nothing is amiss. We’re in our room. In a bed, on the fourth floor.”

“Bed?”

“It’s a King.” Joe smiles, softly. “Very luxurious.”

Nicky sighs, feeling his limbs loosen with Joe’s comfort. “Luxury, huh?”

“We spoiled ourselves. It was well deserved.”

“Egyptian cotton sheets?”

“Bamboo.”

Nicky hums, thoughtful, deeply snuggled into Joe’s chest. The nightmare fading with every brush of his husband’s fingers, every press of his lips, and every breath against Nicky’s head.


	4. Banter

“Honey Cakes?”

“No.”

“Sweet Flower Pie?”

“What?”

“No? What about ‘Charming Apples’?”

“Joe-“

“Luxury Globes?”

“I will take a vow of celibacy for a year.” Nicky threatens, Joe huffs, “Fine fine..hmm.”

“This is _entirely unnecessary,_ you realize.” Nicky reminds him. “And hardly the point of what this was for.”

“What is the point of wearing something like _this-_ “ Joe gives a tug, making Nicky arch against the bedding, “If not for every ridiculous euphemism I can come up with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Nicky considers, voice dripping with intense sarcasm, glancing over his shoulder, “When I bought this, I wasn’t thinking, ‘I wonder how many corny comments my husband can make about it,’ And more thinking ‘He isn’t going to be thinking long enough to _make_ comments.”

Joe hummed, resting his chin against the small of Nicky’s back, “Should have thougth of that before purchasing a thong, darling. I can multitask”

“You are infuriating, you know that? Infuriating.”

“You’re not hearing denials, now are you?” Joe says, tutting when Nicky’s mouth opens-probably to threaten him with bodily harm. Joe simply pushes two fingers in before Nicky has a chance to complain further, relishing in the annoyed little glance he gets before Nicky contents himself with licking over the digits, following Joe’s gaze up and down his back. Down his ass, where the red barely-there fabric outlines the curves, dips into his crease.

“You know,” Joe continues, “It’s almost a crime to spend money on something that _barely_ qualifies as a garment.” Carefully removing his fingers from Nicky’s mouth, pausing briefly to run them along his bottom lip, hissing when Nicky gets cocky and bites the tips. “But it is a good investment, all the same.”

“Joe-“ Nicky warns, huffing when Joe climbs over his body, arranging himself until he’s properly draped over him, sliding a hand around his front, cupping his cock where it’s contained in red silk, pulling him backwards against himself, smiling into the space between Nicky’s shoulder and neck when he pushes back against Joe’s own, rolling down into the hardness there. Familiar, but exciting all the same.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” Nicky pants, and to his credit-Nicky’s been _patient._ Letting Joe have his fill while he laid sprawled out on the bed, accepting Joe’s wide-eyed praises. For all the nonsense comments he’d made, he’d spent a full fifteen or so minutes when he’d come from his shower openly staring, petting, and caressing. Getting them both excited before he’d decided for whatever reason to start babbling at him about euphemisms.

Now, Nicky delights in the heavy rocking, annoyed with the softness of the mattress that forces him to keep moving forward, when he _wants_ to be backwards, grinding into the swell of Joe’s cock. Making impatient, needy noises while Joe takes his hint, slowing them and rolling until Nicky’s entirely flattened to the bedding, rocking into him from above and letting Nicky sigh, molded into bedding, and rutting himself backwards.

Joe’s grinding is a merciless, steady rhythm, Nicky’s breath coming out in threads, panted and stuttered, unable to take full breaths until he feels Joe stumble, tighten against him, cock throbbing and spasming against the swell and curves of his ass, soaking his skin and the sad excuse for string fabric.

He follows him in moments, so overstimulated and heated that even the weak bedding is no deterrent, twitching, throbbing, and soaking the silk, panting aggressively into the pillow.

Joe’s heavy against his back, Nicky sated, slumped and content. They lay plastered together, in no hurry to move.

“How about.” Joe says, suddenly, “Pert Peaches?”

Nicky hits him with a pillow, using a well-executed backwards throw. Joe’s laughs make it worth it.


	5. Soak

Joe did not care how many movies, books, poems, whatever else romanticized it. Being caught in a sudden downpour was not romantic. Being soaked to the bone, cold and frozen, was not romantic. Nicky shivering so violently beside him that he can see his teeth chattering, his stone-cold fingers loose in his own frozen grip was not romantic.

Nicky can barely talk, his lips purple-blue, pale cheeks stark white, hair plastered to his face, shuddering into Joe’s grasp as the rain continues in a merciless path. Joe dragging him along with what energy he has left, his shoes squeaking soddenly against the pavement as the walk closer to their hotel.

“Soon, love.” Joe apologizes, his own teeth clashing in his jaw, making it hard to talk coherently, squinting at the upcoming building through the downpour. “Just up there.”

“Thank fuck,” Nicky grimaces, “I can’t feel my fingers.”

Joe can confirm that, his fingers are frighteningly cold in Joe’s own, which are not doing much better and can barely offer Nicky comfort.

“Almost.”

Crossing the hotels threshold feels like victory, Joe checking them in while Nicky tries not to shiver against his side. Their bag is durable, but the fabric is going to need to sit by the heater to dry. Both of them dripping puddles into the hotel floor, Joe sending a brief, mental apology to the cleaner for it.

Nicky, however, is proving to be of great concern. He looks hollow, ghost-like, too close to his look during a death for Joe to be comfortable with, hasting him into the elevator and getting them to their room.

The bag is dropped near the door, Joe locking them in and immediately getting his fingers on Nicky, working him out of his coat, his shoes, Nicky shuddering and shaking with every movement.

“I know, love, I’m sorry.” Nicky shaking his head, “Joe it’s okay, let me-“

He tries to do the same, for Joe, but his fingers can’t grasp anything, letting out a small noise of frustration. Joe kisses at his frozen lips, reassuring him.

There’s icicles in his hair, icicles Joe hadn’t noticed before, and he frowns, “I’ll undress myself, but you need to get warm.”

“So do you” Nicky argues, “We’re both soaked.”

That much is truth, and Joe knows that they both need to warm up desperately. Still, he works his own clothes off, both of them leaving the things in a heap near the door. They can fix the mess later, drape the sodden things in the tub or something. Joe is far more concerned with getting blood back into Nicky’s limbs. And his own, truth to tell.

Nicky is shivering still even as his fingers weakly close around Joe’s wrist. Together, they shuffle into the bathroom, Joe bending at the tub (not huge but they’ll make it work) to fill it with lukewarm water. Even though they’d both prefer hot, its not good to get the shock of it on their frozen skin.

When it’s half-full, Joe coaxes Nicky into it, wincing when he hisses from the temperature change. Joe climbs in behind him, and while they’re cramped, it’s more than manageable. They’ve shared smaller tubs.

Joe rubs his fingers into Nicky’s skin, cradling him against his chest. Nicky sighs, leans back, wishing the water was warmer.

“Fuck.” He says, finally, “It is so cold.”

“There was ice in your hair.” Joe says, “Freezing rain.”

“I didn’t even notice, but it’s cold enough.”

Joe nods in agreement, steadily working his fingers down Nicky’s shoulders, his arms, steadily bringing life back into those stone-cold limbs, Nicky’s trembling easing by degrees as they let the lukewarm water flood them, bring life back into their bones and blood.

“Joe, what about you?” Nicky, sweet, precious Nicky asks, concerned.

“Worry not, I’m warming from you.” Which was true, Joe making his own hands work and pressed flush against Nicky’s back is bringing warmth to himself, but he still lets out a soft, sweet sound when Nicky grabs at his hand, drawing it up and kissing the back of it.

“Thank you.” Not willing to let Joe’s hand go, “You take such good care of me.”

“And you I.” Joe says, “Together. Can you turn?”  
  
It isn’t easy, water splashes on the floor and Joe has to guide him, but soon enough Nicky is facing him, their legs out on either side of one another, bracketing them. Joe reaches around and adds some more hot water, bringing the temperature back up to a more pleasurable warmth.

Nicky’s colour is coming back, cheeks flushing, looking far livelier and more warmed.

“There you are.” Joe smiles, drawing their noses together, hand caressing Nicky’s neck. Nicky smiling back, rubbing his nose against Joe’s cheek.

“You to.”

Neither of them like seeing the other cold. The echoes of death always too close to bear. To raw, too constant. A reminder of their uncertain fate.

There’s steam in the room, the windows fogged, the tub is getting too warm, and Joe would rather be nowhere else, drawing Nicky into a kiss before he notices Nicky’s already leaned in, soft, lazy drags of lips and tongues. Breathing each other in, rejoining in their shared life.

Warm. Sated. Loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I have several headcanons for how I think Kaysanova work as a pairing. Some of those include Nicky being a devious little shit, Joe deserving to all the care and adoration possible, equal levels of banter and being so hopelessly in love I cry.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoy writing!


End file.
